Chapter Text
This Author has it on good authority that a prolific family by a name none other than ‘Spencer’ was spotted in their Grosvenor Square residence this week. Could it be true that the Spencers have returned from their American Affair? If so, then This Author would duly advise the mamas and debs of the ton to jump through hoops this season, for the Duke of Somerset’s only daughter is both yet to come out to society and of marriageable age. Of course, when you read this, gentle readers, you shall already know if these rumours hold true, but one cannot say no forewarning was given.
If This Author’s memory serves correctly, Lady Imogen Spencer may surely prove to be tough competition, for not only do the daughter of dukes seldom linger on the shelf, but this one daughter has something only few can boast to possess: Her Majesty’s favour.
Perhaps the competition for this season’s Diamond has ended before it even began. Or perhaps we shall bear witness to a most glorious fall from grace. Only time bears the answers.
Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, April 1814
HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF SOMERSET SITS AT HIS DESK, massaging his temples. “You are two and twenty years of age, Imogen, it is high time that you debut.”
By all accounts, good society dictates that a young lady of Lady Imogen Spencer's age be the prime time to find an eligible suitor, marry, and continue their good and noble lineage. The Spencers had been frolicking in the Americas for the better part of the last five years, and God forbid that Henry Spencer, the Duke of Somerset allow his daughter to marry an American. They are revolutionaries at worst, men of common breeding at best. If Imogen is to marry, they would first have to return to British soil, back to the ton.
Luckily (or, perhaps, unluckily, if one was in Lady Imogen's shoes), Her Royal Highness, Queen Charlotte recalled the Spencers from their extended vacation abroad, requesting that the duke relinquish his position as Ambassador to the Americans and reclaim his previous title of Foreign Minister. Though she holds no formal political sway, the tenacious monarch was able to whisper suggestions in the Prime Minister's ear; in truth, she seemed to feel some sort of nostalgia for the Spencers which is, as the duke assumes, the reason behind their request to return.
It had not been that surprising. All know that the late Duchess of Somerset had been the Queen's favoured handmaiden and long-time girlhood companion. When she passed five years ago, it had been during the peak of the social season and so the Spencers were not allowed the reprieve of private grief. The Queen herself arranged the late duchess’ funeral and ordered a mourning period over the whole ton. All the gentry wore black, all balls cancelled for the foreseeable future, and complete and utter misery befell the ton, but no one could counter the Queen's wishes for it would simply be distasteful to throw festivities under a state of mourning.
It did not take long for the duke, newly appointed as the Ambassador to the Americas, to request that he and his family take leave to the United Colonies so as to — he reasoned — oversee all business of imports and exports as well as resow good-natured relations to the declining British empire’s newly lost territories. But peel back the facades and pretences, and the truth is that he nor his children could stand the pitiful looks they received nor could they bear witness to the constant reminder of his wife's death in every waking breath.
The request was granted by the gracious Queen and thus the well-respected family of three left the motherland.
...only to return five years later, the chapter of their extensive travels in the Americas well and truly closing. Their return only means a few things, none of them particularly pleasant. The Spencers will have to face the scrutiny of every prying eye once more. They will have to adopt the gentle sensibilities and cordial masks that every soul in the ton wore, which are seldom seen in the much more liberated Americas.
The spindly and timorous girl that Imogen Spencer had been, was dashed in a foreign country that was more broad-minded in ways that would trouble even the most vivacious constitutions of the ton. Can she be a lady of polite society once more, filled with all the grace and decorum expected of her?
You must stop frightening yourself, she tells herself. All will be well.
It seems, in her family, that only she shares these nerves. Not even two days back in the capital and His Grace had already engaged with his gentlemen friends at the club, converged in the House of Lords, and retook the reins over their London estate from their managing man, Cecil, who presided over all stately affairs in his absence.
Francis, the second-born Spencer, heir to the duke, and the Marquess of Lansdowne, resumed all training and teachings befitting a future duke and peer. Though he was just three-and-ten years of age, he abandoned all wishes to fence or ride or even play with young Gregory Bridgerton and Theodore Cowper, in want of shadowing his father and his father’s peers at the House of Lords.
Imogen, however, has one thing in her near future — the dreaded 'D' word. No, it is not death, but it is no less of a certainty.
Debut.
She had managed to escape her debut when she was seven-and-ten years of age. It matters not that they were to go to the Americas, for it was a decision made before her mother’s passing. Henry Spencer graciously allowed his daughter to delay her debut after she and Daphne Bridgerton concocted a well-drafted presentation to the Viscount Bridgerton and the Duke of Somerset.
All the while growing up, she and Daphne were always attached at the hip, sharing the same governesses, the same dance instructors, the same pianoforte tutors. Imogen had heard of course that Daphne’s season had been a great success, through their gossip-laden letters to one another, and though it is clear that Imogen should, therefore, share the same illustrious fate, it does very little to ease the tiny beast of discontent that grows in Imogen’s person every minute she stays here.
But, like every woman, she is trapped. She has no option but to do what she does best: smile and bear it.
Their excursion to the Americas is well and truly over.
“Very well, papa,” Imogen nods stiffly.
“I know it is the furthest prospect of yours, my dear, but the fact of the matter remains that you are a duke’s daughter and that your debut is very much long overdue. Simply look at Daphne, she is quite brilliant last season I hear, and if that is the case for her, then I offer no shadow of a doubt that the same will be said for you.”
“Papa,” Imogen says, shaking her head a little amusedly. “I said, ‘very well’.”
He pauses, setting down his quill. “You did?”
“I did.”
The duke releases an exuberant laugh of disbelief, standing from his chair suddenly. He rounds his desk and approaches his daughter with open arms. He places his hands on her shoulders fondly. “You will shake the ton to its very core, of that I am sure,” Henry says, before pulling his daughter in for an embrace.
“What do you desire for me, papa?” She mumbles into his suit-jacket.
“I desire that my daughter be happy, that you will choose a gentleman who makes you grin ear-to-ear just as I had once done for your mother.”
The fireplace is aglow with crackling cinders that cast father and daughter in an amber corona. Imogen knows not what to say; a cord of barbed wire coiled around her throat and threatened to spill tears. Mention of her mother always poses a tricky challenge to her composure.
Father pulls away and places a kiss to her temple. “I desire that my children live a life as their parents did, filled with laughter and joy and love.”
“You wish for me to find love, papa? That is an obstacle near unconquerable.”
“Now where is my little lady that dreamed of princes and love’s true kiss and happily-ever-afters? I do miss her.” The duke’s smile turns sad.
“I miss her, too,” Imogen whispers. “And I miss America.”
“As do I. You will always be under my protection, married or no, Imogen. For as long as I live, no hurt will ever come to you, do you hear me?”
Imogen nods and smiles, but she hears the unspoken word all the same. Again. No hurt will ever come to you again.
Her father inhales sharply as a knock comes to the door.
“The rest of the cases from the ferry have arrived, Your Grace,” says Jonty, their household steward who came with them to the Americas and back, from the other side of the door.
The duke cups Imogen’s cheek tenderly. “We are home now, my dear girl. Relish in that fact. Perhaps pay the Bridgertons a visit. It will do some good to lift your spirits, I suspect.”
Imogen does as she is bid, though taking the time to drink a cool lemonade to calm her rising bout of worry. The very last thing she wants to do is primp and preen in front of London’s eligible bachelors. She longs to be back in the Americas, in its metropolitan cities where she is simply a face amongst others. She could walk without an escort, speak without restraint, and, importantly, she does not have the eyes of a whole society upon her. With another gulp of cold lemonade, she lets all these wants wash away, for they are unattainable.
The walk to the Bridgerton house is brisk, seeing as they live next door. Ordinarily, it would have been uncouth to turn up to their estate without invitation or notice, but those niceties had long been thrown out of the window before she was even born. Lady Millicent Spencer, neé Moreno, grew up with the finest, most impenetrable inner circle that consists of like-minded ladies of the ton, namely, one Violet Ledger, who eventually adorned a more prolific name: the, then, Viscountess Bridgerton. Though, now, the title Dowager looms over the woman’s shoulder, the shadow of the Reaper.
Imogen finds her hands shaking and her gait a little wobbly as she ambles to their townhouse, and it is not for it being the Bridgerton’s townhouse that gives her such nerves. The novelty of being in the Bridgertons’ favour — one of the most prolific, esteemed, and desired families in the country — died long ago, seeing as the Spencers themselves are amongst the ranks.
Instead, the reason for her unsettled mind comes in the form of one man, a man by the name of–
“Benedict, my lady.”
That snaps Imogen out of her daze. She inhales sharply, wiping her dress down. “Hm?”
“Mr. Benedict and Mr. Colin are not at home at present, miss,” says the butler.
“Oh?” she breathes. “Well, what a shame. I should have to send them my regards.”
It quells the small fire of apprehension burning within her, for the moment at least. Perhaps it is a saving grace or perhaps it is simply delaying the inevitable. ‘Inevitable’ being unreturned gazes and a yearning that stems from her girlhood for one of her best friend’s handsome and gallant brothers. In that regard, Imogen has to concede she is much like every other young lady of the ton.
Within the home, there is a knock on the parlour door, behind which comes soft and skilful piano notes.
“What is it, Michael?”
“You have a visitor, my lady,” the Bridgerton butler announces.
“Who?” Anthony, Imogen is sure. His voice has not changed.
“Lady Imogen Spencer, sir.”
The piano halts and all chattering ceases. The doors to their parlour open and Imogen inhales a deep breath before stepping in, straight-backed and with a dazzling smile on her face.
“Imo!”
Immediately, she is met with hugs and smiles and gleeful gasps. It takes Anthony to pry little Hyacinth and Gregory from her waists.
“Now, now, you two. All this just for the lady to be suffocated to death?” he softly chides.
“Then it shall be the most gracious of deaths,” Imogen jokes, bending down to plant a kiss on both of their cheeks. “The two of you have grown so much, I should feel myself welling up.”
“The same can be said for you,” comes Daphne’s soft voice. She takes to her mother’s side and it is then that Imogen is reminded of her manners.
She curtsies deeply, sweeping her eyes to the floor before bringing them back up. “Viscount. Lady Bridgerton. I do apologize for intruding in as such, but I simply could not help myself.”
Violet tsks in playful irritation. She nears the girl, one bare hand against the girl’s cheek, her eyes scanning Imogen fondly as one would do their child. “Do not be silly. Come, you must tell us of your travels.”
The women take to the chaise lounges, Anthony following suit, idly munching on a biscuit.
“Forgive me, mama, but I simply have to ask. Oh, please, tell me you will be a debutante this season, too, Imo,” Eloise pleads, her wide eyes already rolling out of their sockets.
Smiling, she replies, “I am. Do not worry, we will certainly navigate these uncharted waters together.” Eloise releases a hum, apprehension befalling her as she brings her nails to her mouth, only to be swatted away by her mother.
“You make it sound as though it were a most terrible thing, Eloise,” Daphne chimes.
“Yes, well, not everyone can be the,” Eloise places a hand to her forehead, swooning dramatically, “Incomparable.”
“Oh, yes. How could I forget? Daph, you simply must tell me about, well, everything!” And with a baiting grin, she adds, “Your Grace.”
Daphne leans forward and scrunches her nose. “Oh ha ha. Do not call me that and Eloise,” she shifts to face her sister sitting opposite, “you will be a shining jewel this season. Do not worry.”
“I daresay, a diamond,” Imogen winks, knowing it will serve to only rile little Eloise further.
She earns a sardonic smile.
♕♚
Benedict Bridgerton strides upstairs into the corridor that houses his sisters’ chambers. Fiddling with his cuffs, he is not at all perplexed to see his family crowded in front of Eloise’s door, which is, to say, firmly shut.
“Has no-one managed to coax her out yet?” He asks with a crooked grin, placing a kiss on his mother’s cheek.
“Benedict, there you are,” says Anthony.
“Here I am.”
“We might need reinforcements,” the firstborn says.
Benedict arches a brow. “Whatever for? I am sure our darling sister will come out in her own time.”
“Time that we do not have,” Francesca muses impatiently, glancing at the overhead clock. “The ceremony is to start in the hour.”
As if hearing their mumblings, Eloise’s door cracks ajar slightly, and one of her handmaidens peeks out. A flush is at her cheeks, her hair slightly frazzled, and her eyes wide.
Violet grimaces at the handmaiden’s appearance. If that is any indication as to their difficulties with getting Eloise prepared for her debut, then surely a pay rise is in their midst. “Tell us, how is she?”
“Is she alive?” Benedict quips, smirking.
“She… will be ready soon, my lady,” the maid says.
Eloise’s voice, tight with indignation, yells out in a remarkably unladylike fashion, “The word you are looking for is ‘never’. I will never be ready to adorn these ridiculous feathers as if I were a peacock looking for a mate!”
“I shall have you know, Sister, that it is the male peacocks who adorn those feathers,” is Benedict’s reply.
“And I shall have you know, Brother, that your teasing will only further entice me to throw you out of the window. Close the door!”
The maid shoots an apologetic look before shutting the door at the viscount’s conceding nod. The family deflates, before turning to one another.
“I must ask, what are the paints set in my bachelor house?” Benedict questions, raising a brow. “Whilst it is quite wonderful, I do not believe I asked, well, anyone to furnish the place.”
“It is a present from Imogen,” explains their mother. “She took great thought in gifting us all with souvenirs from abroad.”
“She has returned from the Americas!” says little Hyacinth, clapping her hands giddily.
Benedict’s brows shoot up in surprise. “Oh, she has? How is she?”
“She is rather beautiful, now,” says Gregory truthfully.
“Brother asked how Imo is, not how beautiful she has become,” Hyacinth curls her lip in displeasure, and for good measure, she elbows him by the rib. “And she is splendidly beautiful, actually. Like a princess!”
“Like a princess?” Benedict asks in amusement. “Last I recall, she and Daph ran amok through the halls, annoying everyone who dared pay them attention.”
“You speak nonsense. The last time we saw her was not when she was merely coming out of her girlhood, Brother,” Francesca says with a shake of her head. “It must have been some six years ago?”
“Five years ago,” confirms Anthony, rubbing his chin.
“Five? It does seem like an eternity has passed since we saw her last,” Benedict muses, and with a grin, adds, “You cannot blame me, Chess, you little ones all muddle under the same bracket. Headlined: irksome little pests.” He brings an arm around Francesca’s shoulders teasingly, only to be shoved away.
“If we are irksome, then what of you?” The girl shoots back.
“Children, now, now,” their mother interjects, flashing a sharp look.
Benedict’s smile does not falter, even as he crouches down to the door and plants an ear to the wood. “Yes, hush now, I believe I can hear her complaining.” His siblings groan but comply and stave their speaking. They wait expectantly, only to receive a shake from their brother. “Well, I must give her my thanks. Imogen, I mean. What did she get all of you?”
The Bridgerton children present all speak simultaneously.
“A pearl necklace!” squeals Hyacinth.
“I received a poems anthology,” says Francesca.
“A brilliant polo mallet,” grins Gregory.
“A leather-bound ledger,” says Anthony.
“Yes, I can most definitely understand you all when you all speak at once,” Benedict tilts his head, voice coated with sarcasm. He shakes his head and meets his mother’s gaze, sharing a look that speaks of their exasperation – fond, but exasperation, nonetheless.
♕♚
As ever, the social season is only considered ‘commenced’ with the Presentation, wherein the young ladies of the ton come out into society for the first time in front of the Queen, stating to all their readiness to be wed. Supposedly, at least – one such lady would most certainly accept the fate of a spinster over a marriage without love.
Despite all of her father’s hopes that she will find a love match, Imogen remains guarded. Those happen to the one percent of marriages in high society, and what chance does she have of receiving that fate? One in a hundred.
At least she has the comfort of knowing that she is not alone in her hesitation. Imogen sits on a lush camel-back settee, dashing a tad of rouge to her lips from a compact mirror. Her eyes glance up, to see Eloise pacing back and forth, her mother trying to console the girl to no end.
“Eloise, if you do not stop, you will surely wear tracks into the floor, and that will be quite a repair to make,” Imogen begins light-heartedly. Eloise stops, turning to her like a deer caught in headlines, before smiling weakly.
“If I do stop, I am certain I will explode. I do not–I look ridiculous! And–and all of the people out there? Looking at me? I would rather wear a hole in the ground leading to–to China!”
It appears Lady Bridgerton and Imogen share the same mind. “You do not look ridiculous,” they both chastise, scandalised.
“If you look ridiculous, then I am afraid the standard for beauty nowadays has reached unattainable heights,” Imogen continues gently.
“That is easy for you to say,” the girl says, not unkindly.
Imogen stands, and draws closer to her, willing up a smile as if using it as a tool to calm her. “Whatever do you mean? Look, Eloise, you are a Bridgerton and, though it might sound cruel, that is the mortal equivalent of holding the divine right to beauty.”
“Oh, Imogen,” Violet whispers softly, blinking at her as a proud mother would to a child. She swipes with a thumb a stain of rouge that strayed past Imogen’s Cupid’s bow, cupping the girl’s cheek.
It is true. Growing up, Imogen was far eclipsed by the beauty of her companion who was always by her side. Daphne. Daphne blossomed early, and was always a sight for sore eyes, whilst Imogen… was not. Imogen was spindly and uncomfortable in her body, had arms and legs far too bony for a girl, and whose assets had not quite flourished yet. Indeed, she was what some might call a ‘late bloomer’, and her time away in America had witnessed such a bloom.
Eloise stops, looking at her with those big round eyes of hers. “You are merely being charming.”
“I am merely being truthful,” Imogen presses, taking her hands and squeezing tightly. “You are the picture of beauty and, truth be told,” she leans in and lowers her voice, ensuring that only she and the two Bridgertons are privy to her words, “you possess an inner beauty that many in this city sorely lack. That is quite a feat.”
“I can see why you and Daphne are so close,” she shakes her head in disbelief. “You are one and the same.” Still, Eloise offers a smile, a genuine one, and squeezes Imogen’s hands in return. “But… thank you. And you, too, look utterly beautiful.”
As the girls hug, Violet Bridgerton looks on fondly. Her heart warms somewhat to know that Imogen Spencer is back in their midst. She always considers her family, and the five years of the Spencers’ absence do not go by fleetingly. It drags, to have the beloved house next door vacant during the social season. That smile that the Dowager wears falls a little; when she looks at Imogen, she sees Millicent, and that realization tugs at her heart painfully. The Spencer girl has her mother’s kind heart, her quick wit, and her beauty, that much is true, and it only means that Violet considers it bittersweet to have Imogen back on English shores.
Bitter, because she will have to be reminded of her late friend, her soul sister, with whom she cannot laugh with, promenade in the parks with, or host elegant balls with. She can no longer hear Millicent Spencer’s bewitching voice whilst Violet plays the pianoforte. She can no longer reminisce fond memories with the one friend she’s known since they were both wee babes.
Sweet, because, at least, Millicent’s family is back. At least Violet can see glimpses of her friend in Millicent’s daughter. At least she can ensure that the late duchess’ children feel a mother’s love, as Violet knows Millicent would do with the Bridgerton children were the roles to be reversed. At least Violet has the comfort of knowing that their friendship transcends generations, and though she can never reminisce with her friend, she can live on and watch Imogen and Francis grow and age for her.
She fusses over Imogen’s and Eloise’s dresses before heaving one big sigh. “Ladies. I daresay you are ready.”